Sharpe’s Gold Page 20

  It was clever. Sharpe saw French soldiers dragging away branches that had cloaked the excavation of a battery that, judging from the activity around it, was ready to open fire. He could see how well protected it was, by yards of earth, mounted fascines, and trenches for the gunners to use when under fire. The siege gun, hidden by shadows, could harass the defenders' guns as the French built their works forward until the breaching batteries were in place and the two forces, attackers and defenders, got down to work in earnest. The battery was built on the edge of dead ground and Sharpe knew that there would be infantry there, well protected from the Portuguese batteries, ready to repel an attack on the harassing battery.

  Charles rubbed his hands. 'Things will hot up soon. They've been slow.'

  Harper looked at the elegant Captain. 'How long can you hold out, sir?'

  Captain Charles beamed at him. 'Forever, Sergeant! Or at least as long as the ammunition lasts! Once that's gone we'll just have to throw rocks.' That was evidently a joke, for he laughed. 'But there are tons of powder in the cathedral. And the Portuguese are good! By Jove, they're good!'

  Sharpe stared at the new battery, and as he looked he saw a cloud of smoke grow at an incredible speed just in front of the earthwork. The smoke was lanced with red flame and, hardly visible, more of an impression than something he really saw, there was a pencil trace in the sky. He knew what it was, the sight of the shot arcing directly towards them.

  'Down!'

  'What is it?' Charles looked at him, but as he did the castle literally shook, the stones of the huge keep seemed to waver and crack, and mixed with the reverberating crash of falling masonry came the thunder of the siege gun.

  'Good Lord!' Charles was still standing. 'Good Lord above! A ranging shot!'

  Sharpe leaned over the ramparts. Some stones had fallen into the moat, dust hung in the air, and frightened birds, nesting in the crevices, flew out into the startled air.

  'Bloody good shooting,' Harper growled.

  The sound of the replying batteries was thinner than that of the giant gun, but more frequent. It took a long time to reload a siege gun. Sharpe, through the telescope, watched as the smoke of the discharge cleared and the Portuguese balls crashed into the redoubt, but to no apparent damage. The hard-packed earth soaked up the cannonade, and the aperture, just wide enough for its purpose, was plugged with fascines as the artillerymen sponged out and rammed home the huge missile. He kept watching, saw the fascines pulled back.

  'Here it comes.'

  This time he kept his eyes in the air above the gun and saw the pencil-line clearly as the huge iron ball rose and fell in its flat trajectory.

  'For what we are about to receive,' Charles said, and the tower shook again, less violently, and the crash and the rumble mixed with the dust and the squawking birds. Charles brushed at his immaculate uniform. 'Distinctly unfriendly.'

  'Has it occurred to you that they're after the telegraph?' Sharpe said.

  'Good Lord. You could be right.' He turned to the midshipman. 'Hurry along, sailor!'

  A shout from the stairway and Lossow appeared, covered in dust, grinning and holding a piece of paper. 'The message.'

  Sharpe grabbed the boy. 'Stop everything. Send that!'

  'But, sir!' The midshipman saw Sharpe's face, decided not to argue.

  'Hurry!'

  Captain Charles looked annoyed but reluctant to interfere, and watched as the boy clattered the ropes up and down.

  'I'm just cancelling the last message, sir. Then I'll send yours.'

  Another shot boomed overhead, sounding like a giant barrel being rolled fast across floorboards. It left a wind behind it, hot and violent, and Harper glanced at Sharpe and raised his eyebrows. Lossow looked at the battery, at the rolling cloud of dirty smoke, and pursed his lips.

  'They've got the range.'

  'The boy's doing his best,' Sharpe said irritably. 'What was the delay?'

  'Damned politics.' Lossow spread his hands. 'The Spanish insisted on the message saying that the gold was Spanish. They insisted on protesting that they did not want British help. Cox is angry, Kearsey's saying his prayers, and your Spanish friends are sharpening their swords. Ah! At last.'

  The black, tarred sheep bladders leaped up on the ropes, quivered for a second, and fell. The boy danced between the halliards, hauling away number by number, the obscene black bags vibrating in the breeze as they jerked up and down.

  'Sir?' Harper was watching the battery. 'Sir!'

  'Down!'

  The ball, twenty-four pounds of iron, struck only a glancing blow on one of the crosstrees. The telegraph was well made, jointed and bolted, and as the French ball spun off into the unknown it ripped itself completely from its base like a tree torn bodily by a hurricane. The boy, holding on to a rope, was spun into the air, screaming until another halliard whiplashed round his neck and tore his head horribly from his shoulders. His blood sprayed the four men falling backwards, and then the mast, still unbroken, pounded back on to the ramparts, killing Charles instantly, broke itself in a great fracture, bounced like a falling cane, and stopped still.

  'Sweet Jesus.' Harper stood up, 'Are you all right, sir?'

  'Yes.' Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?'

  The Sergeant pointed to the head. 'Rest of him's over the wall, sir. Poor wee thing.'

  Lossow swore in German, stood up, flinched as he put his weight on his left leg. Sharpe looked at him. 'Are you - hurt?'

  'Just a bruise.' Lossow saw the midshipman's head. 'Good God.' He knelt by Charles, felt for a pulse, and opened one of the Captain's eyelids. 'Dead, poor fellow.'

  Harper looked over the ramparts, at the drifting smoke. 'Just four shots. That's good shooting.' There was a reluctant respect in his voice.

  Lossow stood up, wiped blood from his hands. 'We must get out of here!'

  Sharpe turned to him. 'We must persuade Cox to let us out.'

  'Ja. Not easy, my friend.'

  Harper kicked the fallen beam. 'Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?'

  Sharpe shrugged. 'And who works it? Maybe, I don't know.' He glanced at the battery, its embrasure plugged, and he knew that the French gunners would be celebrating. They deserved it. He doubted if the gun would fire again, not today; the iron barrels had a limited life and the gun had achieved its purpose. 'Come on. Let's see Cox.'

  'You don't sound hopeful, my friend?'

  Sharpe turned round, blood flecking his uniform, and his face grim. 'We'll get out. With or without him, we'll get out.'

  Chapter 20

  Light, like carved silver, slashed the cathedral's gloom, slanted across the crouching grey pillars, splintered o(T brass and paint, drowned the votive candles that burned before the statues, inched its way over the broad, worn flagstones as the sun moved higher, and Sharpe waited. A priest, lost in the depths of the choir, mumbled beyond the window light, and Sharpe saw Harper cross himself.

  'What day is it?'

  'Sunday, sir.'

  'Is that Mass?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You want to go?'

  'It'll wait.'

  Lossow's heels clicked in the side aisle; he came from behind a pillar, blinked in the sunlight. 'Where is he?' He disappeared again.

  Christ, thought Sharpe, Christ and a thousand deaths. Damn the bloody French, damn the bloody gunner, and he might as well have stayed in the warm bed with his arms round the girl. Footsteps sounded in the doorway and he swivelled anxiously, but it was only a squad of bare-headed Portuguese soldiers, muskets slung, who dipped their fingers in the holy water and clattered up the aisle to the priest and his service.

  Cox had not been at his headquarters; he was on the ramparts, they were told. So the three had hurried there and Cox had gone. Now he was said to be visiting the magazine, so they waited, and the light shaped the dust into silver bars and the muffled responses got lost somewhere in the high stone ceiling, and still Cox had not arrived. Sharpe slammed his scabbard on the floor
, hurting his shoulder, so he cursed again.

  'Amen to that, sir.' Harper had infinitely more patience.

  Sharpe felt ashamed. This was Harper's religion. 'I'm sorry.'

  The Irishman grinned. 'Wouldn't worry, sir. It doesn't offend me and if it offends Him then He's plenty of opportunity to punish you.'

  I'm in love with her, Sharpe thought, God damn and blast it. And if they were delayed another night, that would mean another night, and if it were a week, another week, but they had to move, and soon, for within two days the French would tie Almeida in a ring of earthworks and infantry. But leaving Almeida meant leaving her, and he hacked down again with the scabbard so that Lossow reappeared.

  'What is it?'

  'Nothing.'

  Just one more night, he thought, and he lifted his eyes up to the huge rood that hung in the grey shadows. Is that so much to ask? Just one more night, and we can leave at dawn tomorrow. Dawn is the time to say goodbye, not dusk, and just one more night? There was the creak of the cathedral door, the rattle of heels, and Cox came in with a crowd of officers.

  Sharpe stood up. 'Sir!'

  Cox appeared not to hear him and headed straight over the floor towards the crypt steps, the chatter of his officers smothering the muted drone of the Mass at the far end of the cathedral.

  'Lossow!' Sharpe called. 'Come on!'

  Portuguese soldiers stopped them at the top of the steps and stood silently as they pulled felt slippers over their boots. Sharpe fumbled with the drawstrings, his left arm stiff, but then the slippers were on and the three men, their heels protected against sparking on stone, went down into the crypt. The light was dim and only a handful of lanterns, their horn panes dulling the candle flames, flickered on block-like tombs. There was no sign of Cox or his officers, but at the far end a leather curtain swayed in a doorway.

  'Come on.' Sharpe led them to the curtain, forced its stiff weight aside, and gasped.

  'Good God.' Lossow paused at the head of a short flight of steps that dropped into a dark cavern. 'Good God.'

  The lower crypt was jammed with barrels, piled to the low, arched ceiling, row after row of them, reaching back into a gloom that was relieved only by an occasional horn lantern, double-shielded, and to right and left were further aisles, and when Sharpe turned, at the foot of the stairs, he saw that the steps came down in the middle of the room and the gigantic quantity of powder in front was mirrored behind. He whistled softly.

  'This way.'

  Cox had disappeared down the aisle and they hurried after, looking at the rotund barrels above them, awed by the sheer destructive power of the gunpowder that had been stacked in the deep vault. Captain Charles, before he died, had said that Almeida could last as long as its powder, and that could be months, Sharpe thought, and then he tried to imagine a French shell smashing through the stonework and sparking the barrels. It could not happen. The floors were too thick, but all the same he looked up and was glad to see the broad buttresses, hugely strong, that arched beneath a floor that could have resisted a thousand French shells, and then still be strong.

  Cox was at the very end of the vault, listening to a Portuguese officer, and the conversation was urgent. It was part in Portuguese, part in English, and Sharpe could hear enough to understand the problem. Water was seeping into the crypt, not much, but enough to have soaked two bales of musket ammunition that were stored there. Cox swung round.

  'Who put it here?' There was silence. 'We must move it!' He dropped into Portuguese, then saw Sharpe. 'Captain!'

  'Sir?'

  'In my headquarters! Wait for me there!'

  'Sir…'

  Cox whirled angrily. 'I have enough problems, Sharpe! Damned ammunition stored in the wrong place! It shouldn't be here anyway! Put it upstairs!' He went back into Portuguese, waved his arms, pointed upstairs.

  Harper touched Sharpe's elbow. 'Come on, sir.'

  Sharpe turned, but Cox called him again. 'Captain!'

  'Sir?'

  'Where is the gold?' The faces of the Portuguese officers seemed to be accusing Sharpe.

  'In our quarters, sir.'

  'Wrong place, Sharpe, wrong place. I'll send men and it will be put in my headquarters."

  'Sir!' But Lossow grabbed him, took him away, and Cox turned back to the damp walls and the problem of moving thousands of rounds of musket cartridges up to the cathedral floor.

  Sharpe resisted the German's pull. 'I will not give up the gold.'

  'I know, I know. Listen, my friend. You go to the headquarters and I will go back. I promise you, no one will touch the gold. No one.'

  Lossow's face was deep in shadow, but by the tone of his voice Sharpe knew the gold was safe. He turned to Harper. 'Go with him. On my orders no one, but no one, is to go near that gold. You understand?'

  'Yes, sir. You'll be careful in the street?'

  'They're full of soldiers. I'll be fine. Now go.'

  The two went ahead. Sharpe called after them. 'Patrick?'

  'Sir?'

  'Look after the girl.'

  The big Irishman nodded. 'You know I will, sir.'

  The cathedral bells reverberated with noon, the sun was almost directly overhead, and Sharpe walked slowly across the main Plaza behind two men pushing a barrel of gunpowder. The big French gun, as he had thought, had done its job and was silent, but out there, beyond the spreading ramparts and beyond the killing-ground, the French would be digging their trenches, making new batteries, and the oxen would be hauling the giant guns towards the siege. Almeida was about to become the war, the point of effort, and when it fell, there was nothing between Massena and the sea, except the gold, and suddenly Sharpe stopped, utterly still, and stared at the Portuguese soldiers who came and went by the cathedral. The gold, Hogan had said, was more important than men or horses. The General, Sharpe remembered, had spoken of delaying the enemy, bringing him to battle, but none of that effort would save Portugal. Only the gold. He looked at the castle, with its granite masonry and the stump of the telegraph jutting a brief shadow over the battlement, and then at the cathedral with its carved saints, and despite the sun, the blistering heat, he felt cold. Was it more important than this? Than a town and its defenders? Out there, beyond the houses, were all the paraphernalia of a scientific defence. The great grey defences of this town, the star-shape of glacis and covered way, of town ditch and counter-guard, of bastion and battery, and he shivered. He was not afraid of decisions; they were his job and he despised men who feared to make them. But in the sudden moment, in the middle of the great Plaza, he felt the fear.

  He waited through the long afternoon, listening to the bells of Sunday, the last peaceful day Almeida would know in a long time, and still Cox did not come. Once, he heard a Portuguese battery open fire, but there was no reply, and the town slumbered again, waiting for its moment. The door opened and Sharpe, half asleep in the big chair, started to his feet. Teresa's father stood there with half a smile. He closed the door silently.

  'She was never harmed?'

  'No.'

  The man laughed. 'You are clever.'

  'She was clever.'

  Cesar Moreno nodded. 'She is. Like her mother.' He sounded sad, and Sharpe felt sorrow for him. The man looked up. 'Why did she side with you?'

  Sharpe shook his head. 'She didn't. She's against the French.'

  'Ah, the passion of youth.' He came nearer, walking slowly. 'I hear your men won't release the gold?' Sharpe shrugged and the Spaniard followed the gesture with a smile. 'Do you despise me?'

  'No.'

  'I'm an old man, given sudden power. I'm not like Sanchez.' He stopped, thinking about the great Partisan of Castile. 'He's young; he loves it all. I just want peace.' He smiled as if embarrassed by the words.

  'Can you buy it?'

  'What a foolish question. Of course! We haven't given up, you know.'

  'We?'

  'El Catolico and I.' He shrugged, traced a finger through the dust on the table.

  It occurred to Sha
rpe that El Catolico may not have given up, but Cesar Moreno, the widower and father, was making sure he had supporters on both sides.

  The old man looked at him. 'Did you sleep with her?'

  'Yes.'

  He smiled again, a little ruefully, and wiped the dust off his hand. 'Many men would envy you.' Sharpe made no reply and Moreno looked at him fiercely. 'She'll not come to any harm, will she.' It was not a question; he knew.

  'Not from me.'

  'Ah. Walk carefully, Captain Sharpe. He's better with the sword than you.'

  'I will walk carefully.'

  The Spaniard turned, looked at the varnished pictures on the wall that told of happier times, plumper days, and said quietly, 'He won't let you take the gold. You know that?'

  'He?'

  'Brigadier Cox.'

  'I didn't know.'

  Moreno turned back. 'It is a pleasure to watch you, Captain. We all knew Kearsey was a fool, a pleasant fool, but not what do you say – movement? In the head?'

  'I know what you mean.'

  'Then you came and we thought the English had sent a strong fool after an intelligent fool. You fooled us!' He laughed. It was difficult to make jokes in a strange language. 'No, he won't let you. Cox is an honourable man, like Kearsey, and they know the gold is ours. How will you beat that, friend?'

  'Watch me.' Sharpe smiled.

  'I will. And my daughter?'

  'She'll come back to you. Very soon.'

  'And that makes you sad?'

  Sharpe nodded and Moreno gave Sharpe a shrewd look that reminded the Rifleman that once this man had been powerful. Could be again.

  Moreno's voice was gentle. 'Perhaps one day?'

  'But you hope not.'

  Teresa's father nodded and smiled. 'I hope not, but she is headstrong. I watched her, from the day I betrothed her to El Catolico, and knew one day she would spit in my face, and his. She waited her moment, like you.'

  'And now he waits his?'

  'Yes. Go carefully.' He went to the door, waved a hand. 'We will meet again.'

  Sharpe sat down, poured a glass of wine, and shook his head. He was tired, to the bone, and his shoulder ached and he wondered if his left arm would ever move free again, and the shadows lengthened on the carpet till he slept, not hearing the evening gun, or the door opening.